


The Healing

by lyndysambora



Category: Bon Jovi (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2021-02-26 13:43:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22935625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyndysambora/pseuds/lyndysambora
Summary: It was a joke-- or at least it had started that way. But the more Jon had delved into it, trying to up the ante of it, trying to make it reallygood,the less joke-like it had gotten. In fact, he wasn't sure now exactly what he hoped to gain from it.CW: See A/N
Relationships: Jon Bon Jovi/Richie Sambora
Comments: 16
Kudos: 17





	The Healing

**Author's Note:**

> **CW: READ ON.** Okay, so. I wrote this one many years ago, for a site that no longer exists. Most all my stuff is also currently on Rockfic, but this one is not on there, because Rockfic has a strict rule about underage characters in fics. My characters are NOT underage in this fic (I imagined this fic taking place roundabouts the Crush/Bounce era, but it doesn't matter much); BUT the story does include memories of underage sexual abuse. It doesn't have heaps of detail in the memories, but it was enough that I didn't bother posting it to Rockfic, and it's worth giving a heads-up about here, though I'm not sure I'd put an official "underage" warning on it. Furthermore, I've had readers tell me in the past that, though they enjoyed the fic and found it cathartic, it was also hard to handle. So consider this a trigger warning. 
> 
> Also, I feel the need to mention that I don't normally get into sad stuff about people's lives when I write fics, but at the time I wrote this one, there had been a spate of fanfic authors writing stories that seemed to fetishize the fact of Jon having a history of being sexually abused as a child, and these stories were upsetting, to say the least. "The Healing" was a gift to some of my friends in the fandom, who had been appalled by the abuse-fetishizing stories (a few of whom were considering abandoning fanfic altogether because of it). 
> 
> Also, if you notice a similarity to my fic "Crash", you'd be right. I wrote this one years before I wrote "Crash", and, in fact, I wrote "Crash" because I kind of wanted to revisit the basic idea, but make it a happy version. And since "The Healing" couldn't be posted to Rockfic, "Crash" was born as a happier substitute.
> 
> Finally, this story never had chapters. It was originally written for Hyperboards, and when I wrote it, I just posted pieces of it as I went. I never created chapter arcs for it. It's just a long-ass one-shot. Apologies for that.
> 
> I think that's it. This is the warning-est story I have. Sheesh. :)

Jon twisted from side to side in the full-length mirror, regarding his reflection from all possible angles. 

And suddenly felt very nauseated. 

He twisted again, trying to see any angle he hadn't found yet. It was supposed to be a joke, and he kept reminding himself of that. He had reminded himself of that as he was driving to the tiny boutique clothing store (smaller store meant a smaller crowd), and again while he was in the store, wearing a ball cap and sunglasses, pretending to be just some guy. He had thought about it as he spent over $200 on random articles of clothing so that his choices would be less conspicuous. 

It was a joke-- or at least it had started that way. But the more Jon had delved into it, trying to up the ante of it, trying to make it really _good,_ the less joke-like it had gotten. In fact, he wasn't sure now exactly what he hoped to gain from it. He wasn't sure now whether Richie's laughter would satisfy his intentions or hurt his feelings. 

He shrugged off the thought and twisted again, smoothing down his shirt. It was definitely a joke. There was nothing more to it.

Still, his hand shook a bit as he fished the slim black stick out of the drugstore bag and tore the plastic film off. He had more practice at this than many women, but he hadn't done it in years. There were more kinds to choose from these days-- they still had the plain ones that he remembered, and the tiny little paintbrushes (that he never got the hang of), but now there were ones that were somewhere between liquid and solid, ones that twisted up, self-sharpening ones.

He'd gone the route he had the most experience with. A plain pencil in kohl black and a sharpener. He twisted the eyeliner in the apparatus until it was sharp, and then tamped the point of it on the counter to soften it up as he turned on the hot water at the sink. He hadn't intended to do it, but the well-ingrained habit kicked in, and he held the tip of the pencil under the steaming water for several seconds before flicking the excess off and drawing a careful line along the top lashes of one of his eyes. Then he pulled the lower lid down and swiped the pencil along the inside of the rim before drawing another line up under his lower lashes. Then he stood back to check out the difference from one eye to the other.

Absolutely, certifiably ridiculous. Did he really used to walk around like this?

He considered taking a damp rag to the eye before the stuff had time to set, but then he glanced down at the rest of the outfit he wore and decided it wouldn't matter. Passing the pencil under the hot tap again, he lined the other eye before pulling a brand new tube of mascara out of the plastic bag. Something else he had lots of experience with, though dulled by many intervening years.

Combing the black liquid through his light brown lashes, he allowed his mind to stray back to Richie, where, indeed, most of his thoughts were centered these days. His best friend for almost twenty years. His lover for almost one.

They were supposed to be going to a movie tonight; at that moment, Richie was sitting downstairs waiting. Jon had told him he had a few phone calls to make, and that he'd be ready to go shortly. After that, he'd disappeared to the upstairs bathroom to make his transformation. As he applied the mascara to the other fringe of bare lashes, the conversation that had started the whole thing replayed in his mind, just as it had several times a day for the two weeks since they'd actually spoken it.

They'd been sitting in a restaurant, having dinner, just like any other day. Except on this day, a party of four impossibly sexy women sucked the air out of the place as they were seated across the room. Glimpses of glowing skin, slinky fabric form-fitted to ample and natural cleavage, a peek of thigh here and there through strategic slits in their dresses. Though Jon himself was thoroughly blown away by the awesomeness of the sight, he was almost afraid to glance up at Richie to see what his reaction was. In the end, he couldn't help himself, and found his friend ogling the women from under his eyelashes, and pretending he wasn't. The women would never know he was staring at them; but Jon did.

  


_“Do you miss it?"_

_“Miss what?"_

_Jon tipped his head in the direction of the table full of bombshells. “You know. Being with women."_

_Richie shrugged and looked slightly abashed, though his eyes didn't budge from their targets. "Sure."_

_Twisting his fork in his spaghetti, but not picking any up, Jon admitted, “I do, too. Sometimes."_

_Shrugging again, Richie turned back to his food. “Meh, I can safely say I've had my share." Then he smiled. “It's nice to think about, but it's not worth messing this--” He motioned between them with his hand-- “up. Took us twenty fucking years to get around to it, I ain't interested in any stranger getting in the way."_

_His grin seemed genuine enough, but Jon couldn't shake the feeling that he didn't feel as flippant about the matter on the inside as he pretended to on the outside. Early on, they had discussed the idea of swinging, so that they could still enjoy the company of women from time to time. In fact, they had even gone through with it once, though the women themselves had no idea what the full story was that they were involved in. The women thought they were just having casual one-night- stands, which was all the more they needed to know._

_Though both men had agreed to it and wanted it, that night started a chain-reaction of jealousy and argument that had constituted what were possibly the worst three days of Jon's life. He knew (and he knew Richie knew) that there was no way they could do that again. Not without breaking up. More to interrupt the silence than anything, Jon sipped from his wine glass and said, “Well, maybe I'll dress up like a woman for you sometime then."_

_Richie lowered his fork and looked up, a bit of a smile playing around the edges of his lips. “You would do that?"_

_Jon laughed. “Um, it was a joke."_

_Eyes narrowed in mock resentment, Richie said, “You shouldn't tease a person like that."_

_Jon smiled, but his eyebrows crinkled in question. “You would really want to see that?"_

_“Well, it depends..." Richie said. “If we're talking early-80's business power-suit--"_

_Jon laughed, and Richie grinned. “--then no, maybe not... but if we're talking, say... naughty schoolgirl-- then sure."_

_Jon groaned. “Yeah, I can totally see myself in a plaid skirt and little strappy shoes."_

_“No, not little strappy shoes, but cowboy boots would work just fine."_

_A sudden raucous laugh burst out of Jon. When he caught his breath (and the diners at the surrounding tables stopped staring), he leaned forward and whispered, “What the fuck? Cowboy boots? This isn't the first time you've thought of this, is it, you perverted fuck?"_

_“I plead the fifth."_

_“So are you gonna do it for me, too, then?"_

_“I wouldn't make a good girl."_

_“Oh, and I would?"_

_Richie's gaze moved over Jon, appraising him. “Blond hair, blue eyes. Unbelievable ass."_

_“So I have an ass like a girl?"_

_“Why do you think I can't keep my hands off it?”_

  


Jon dampened a wash cloth and dabbed at the skin above and below his eyes. He still remembered how to apply the makeup, but he'd forgotten the part about keeping his eyelids at half-mast until the mascara was dry. As soon as the stray streaks of black were gone, Jon's attention was once again grabbed by the costume he wore-- a flouncy black miniskirt that barely covered his ass and a white button-down dress shirt that might have been somewhat androgynous, except that it was cut for a woman-- a little more generously proportioned at the top, cinched in slightly to accentuate the waist. The _style_ was androgynous, but the particular piece was unmistakably female. The thing even had longish tails at the front, making it conducive to tying it off to show off the wearer's stomach.

Jon had tried that at first-- he was proud of his abs, after all-- but in the end he'd untied the tails and let them hang. For some reason, he just couldn't bring himself to go that far. Just like the thigh-high stockings he'd bought and tried on and immediately tore off. He hadn't shaved his legs or anything for tonight. He wanted to _dress_ like a girl, not try to _pass_ for one. He wasn't feminine enough for that, and he thought he might vomit if he started to look like a drag queen. The stockings had looked utterly stupid stretched over hairy legs, so he'd ditched them. Not to mention, since it was all just a _joke,_ he thought it might be appropriate that he dressed like a girl, but left his legs unshaved. Ha ha.

So he'd opted for bare legs and the cowboy boots that Richie had requested. It looked both insane and somehow fitting.

Twisting around enough to see the back of his lower half, Jon pulled the hem of the tiny skirt down, as he had obsessively for the last fifteen minutes. When he looked in the mirror like that, part of his butt showed, and he wasn't sure whether it was because his body was torqued and the line of the skirt was warped, or if his butt was just plain exposed. It might not have mattered so much, except for the fact that he had failed spectacularly at picking out the right underwear for the ensemble.

He hadn't intended to take the joke to the point of picking out lingerie, but once he was there in the shop, picking out the clothes, he decided to go for it, figuring he could always back out later. And those particular panties had looked somewhat modest on the hanger. White and lacy, they looked all kinds of feminine, but not exactly racy. In fact, the style was even called “boy shorts" , so Jon figured, how skimpy could they possibly be when worn?

He quickly realized, with a disgusted groan, that “boy shorts" was the technical name for the underwear style he and Richie called “cheeky peekies" . His own underwear would have looked ridiculous with the rest of the costume (why in the fuck had he worn jockey shorts today anyway?), and he couldn't go commando because the whole thing was, after all, just a joke. So he'd just bitten the bullet and kept the panties on. They did go well with the bra he'd selected, after all.

He knew a little more about bras (apparently) than panties, so he'd picked out the most nonexistent cup he could find-- something called “AAA" -- in a couple of different band sizes to make sure he brought back something that would actually fit. Also white, the bra was made out of the thinnest satin imaginable, and it was the most uncomfortable fucking thing Jon had ever worn, making him think of a giant double-barreled jock strap. How did women walk around with these things on?

He grasped the bra band through his shirt and pulled down on it, wriggling around to try to make it even minutely more comfortable. It didn't show through the shirt so, as with the panties, Jon still wasn't exactly sure what the point was. It wasn't like he was going to strip down or anything, so technically, the underthings were a waste of effort. He began unfastening his shirt, ready to ditch the stupid bra, but instead just stood there looking at it. In the mirror, he watched his fingers plucking at the straps, readjusting the thing, but not making a move to take it off.

Finally, he just buttoned the shirt back up and tried to forget it. But he did spend a few more minutes staring at the outside of the outfit, thinking he looked like a fucked-up version of his boyhood fantasies of the girls he went to Catholic school with.

He tucked his hair behind his ears and took a deep breath, giving himself one more once-over. Totally ridiculous. And he hoped Richie would love it anyway. Not that it mattered, considering he was just going for a laugh.

He turned away from the mirror and resolved not to think about that particular thing anymore.

Poking his head out the bathroom door, he gave a quick glance around to make sure Richie hadn't made his way upstairs to investigate his friend's extended absence. Jon released a held breath when he realized he was completely alone. He pulled the door open and, on wobbling knees, emerged from the room, out into the hallway.

  


_You could always go back. It wouldn't take long_

  


It was too late now. He'd already spent way longer upstairs than should have been necessary to “make a few phone calls”, not to mention the eye makeup was beyond set by now. If he tried to wash it off now, he'd almost certainly be left with some kind of shadow from it, which he was sure Richie would notice and ask questions about.

He stepped down onto the stairs.

What was the worst that could happen? He doubted seriously that Richie would be freaked out, considering he, himself, had created the larger portion of the joke. But as Jon descended another stair, then another, he found himself thinking of Richie's laughter again.

Another stair. Then another. The entrance to the living room lay to the side of the bottom of the staircase, putting Jon out of Richie's line of sight until he decided to show himself. He thought again about running back upstairs; he could make up a story about his eyes, and Richie would never have to know about any of it.

By the time Jon arrived at the bottom of the stairs, his heart was up in his throat, nearly choking out his breath. Shaking, he stepped out into the doorway.

Richie was seated on the couch, his face turned to the side looking at some random point across the room as he tapped his fingertips on the back of the couch impatiently. The urge to turn back once again gripped Jon... he'd made the effort, proven to himself he could. It wasn't his fault Richie happened to be looking the other direction at the wrong moment.

Instead, Jon put a palm on the door frame and leaned on it, the other hand on his hip, his back arched just slightly, his feet crossed casually. He took a deep, steadying breath and waited for Richie to notice. It didn't take long.

Richie's focus circled back around to Jon and his impatient fingers froze in mid-tap. “Holy mother of god," he said, scooting to the edge of the couch, his eyes scouring Jon's body.

Ignoring the persistent weakness in his knees, Jon called up a hefty dose of that reliable sex appeal he kept on hand at all times. “Ironic choice of words,” he purred, pushing himself off the door frame and crossing the room lazily. Without even meaning to, he allowed his hips to sway as he walked, mimicking the subtleties of a woman's gait.

“What the hell are you--" Richie started to say, his words sounding breathless and awestruck.

Jon turned slowly around, glancing back over his shoulder with lowered eyelids, momentarily poking his ass out enough to flash a glimpse of those ridiculous panties he wore. “You like it?"

Richie, unable to draw his eyes up from where Jon's ass had been a second before, was silent as Jon sauntered his way up close, close enough to split Richie's knees with his own.

“You're not laughing."

“I can't breathe."

Chuckling a little, Jon bent down, spreading his hands over Richie's thighs for support and kissed him softly on the mouth. When he broke away, the wide-eyed sincerity of Richie's expression gave him a little jab in the heart. To combat the unexpected openness, Jon sucked up his alter ego for another round. He straddled Richie's lap, planting his knees on either side of the other man's hips, before going in for another kiss.

This time, Richie grabbed onto the back of Jon's head, pulling him in harder, plunging his tongue into the depths of his best friend's mouth, crushing their lips together. Jon wrenched himself out of the kiss and caught his breath. “Easy now," he cooed, trailing his fingertips over Richie's already-flushed lips, watching the inevitable flash of desire in the other man's eyes, and feeling the ensuing surge of accomplishment that he craved.

Richie's hands inched up Jon's thighs, sliding under the loose fabric of the skirt he wore, igniting a sudden pang of something like butterflies in Jon's insides. Only it wasn't quite butterflies, it was something else he couldn't put a finger on. Before he could identify it, he dropped his hands on top of the other man's to stop their exploration.

Richie looked at him questioningly, but Jon wasn't even sure, himself, why he did it, so he just said, “Not yet, okay?"

“Okay."

To interrupt the awkward moment, Jon leaned in for another kiss, and Richie found the bottom hem of his shirt, sliding his hands up underneath, rubbing his palms against the heated skin of Jon's back. When he bumped into the back of the bra, he broke their kiss and searched Jon's face, a mixture of lust and disbelief on his own.

“You're fucking killing me."

“You like that?"

Richie fingered the hooks. “Can I?"

Jon squirmed against the touch, wiggling the fastenings of the bra away from Richie's searching fingers. The lust and disbelief on Richie's face mellowed into a sort of polite puzzlement. “Too soon?” he asked.

Pretending not to be surprised by the question, Jon just nodded. The puzzlement didn't dissipate from Richie's expression right away, so he found himself talking to deflect it. “Is this how you treat all the women?” he asked.

Grinning, Richie said, “Depends on the woman."

“Just what are you trying to say about me?"

“I'm just teasing you," Richie said, his voice suddenly soft, and for a moment, Jon wondered if he thought the question had been serious. But before he had time to try to figure out where the conversation was going, Richie touched the side of his face.

“Have you ever done this before?" he asked, gently.

Eyebrows crinkling, Jon tried to decipher the question. Richie had to know that Jon had never dressed as a woman before, so Jon couldn't quite figure out what the question could mean in context. Finally, he just said, “Done what?"

Richie motioned over Jon's thighs, wiggling his own hands. “You know-- all of this."

Continuing to stare, still unsure if he was fully understanding the question, Jon remained silent. So Richie added, “It's okay if you haven't."

A sort of hesitant comprehension dawned on Jon and he smiled a little. He thought he understood what was happening, but he didn't want to assume and get it wrong. So he picked his words to cover himself either way, “A lot of my friends have. But I haven't," he said, adopting a slightly shyer tone of voice.

“There's nothing wrong with that," Richie said gently, and Jon knew for sure now the role he was playing. A ripple of excitement passed through him, followed by an equally strong one of something he couldn't quite place.

“Sometimes I think I'm the only one..." he said, not exactly sure where the words were coming from.

“Is that why you want to?"

“No.”

Richie tucked a stray strand of hair behind Jon's ear. “I don't want you to think you have to do anything just to make me happy. I'm happy just being here with you."

Another pang of the not-quite-butterflies feeling hit Jon in the belly, and this time he thought it might be something akin to fear. He quickly shook off the thought. “I know,” he said.

His fingers finding the edge of Jon's jaw, Richie tipped his friend's head up to meet his gaze. Jon hadn't even realized his face was dipped that low.

“Do you?” Richie said.

“Seems a little crazy doesn't it?"

“What does?"

Idly plucking at the collar of Richie's shirt, Jon said, “I get all dressed up and sit on your lap and stuff, and then if I said I don't want to--"

“Oh, no. No no no,” Richie said, grasping Jon's hand, so Jon couldn't distract himself with the collar anymore. “Yeah, you look great, but you don't _owe_ me anything, if that's what you're thinking--"

A sudden wave of heat engulfed Jon's face and he shook his hand free of Richie's so he could resume fussing with the other man's shirt. He watched his fingers shake as he smoothed and re- smoothed the fabric he'd tampered with.

“You don't think it's unfair?"

“Of course not."

“But if I make you expect... you know, something to happen--”

“If I'm stupid enough to _expect_ something, it's my problem, not yours."

Jon forced himself to let go of Richie's collar before the repetition drove him crazy. He curled the hand into a fist to keep it still. “What if I don't really know, though?"

Taking Jon's balled-up hand in his own and rubbing his thumb over the contracted fingers, Richie said, “Don't know what?"

“You know... how far I want to go..." Jon said, watching the tendons in his wrist relax along with his fingers.

“You play it by ear, you know?"

Jon shook his head a little, feeling the muscles in his hand and wrist clenching again. He wasn't sure why it mattered so much to 'win' the little debate, but his throat tightened at the thought of letting it go.

“You don't understand.”

“Of course I do."

“No, you don't."

“What don't I understand?"

Swallowing against the growing constriction of his throat, Jon said, “You can't just-- you can't just do a little bit and then say no.”

“Yes you can."

“No. You _can't_. It's not fair and it makes people crazy."

More than anything he'd said up to that point, this simple comment seemed to really surprise Richie. “You always have the right to say no," he said.

“But sometimes--" Jon began, his brain moaning at him to shut up and move on, just shut up and fuck the man already. That's what they were there for, right? “Sometimes a person can see through you, right? Like you would be able to see through me, right?"

“What are you talking about?"

“Like I say I don't want you to fuck me, but I really do, and you can see that."

“How could I even pretend to know what's going on in _your_ head?"

It was useless; he wasn't going to win this, because Richie just didn't understand. It was like arguing with a brick wall and expecting to sway its opinions. And besides, he didn't care for that puzzled-concerned expression that permeated Richie's features now. He wanted that look of lust and reverence back.

Lowering his eyelids again, he wiggled his body in closer to his friend's, but he couldn't tell whether Richie was hard or not. Which probably meant he wasn't. Jon would change that quickly enough. “You do believe me, right? That I've never done anything like this before?"

“Of course I do."

“I hear guys like virgins."

“Some guys do."

“Do you?”

“I don't judge anyone by their experience."

Jon's hand crept slightly back toward Richie's now-wrinkled collar. He interrupted the compulsion by leaning in for a long, slow kiss. He had it on good authority that he could work wonders with his tongue, and he employed every tactic he knew to get the other man's mouth to melt into his, but Richie's kiss was still somewhat chaste. Swallowing back the urge to let his frustration show, Jon instead employed a little pout.

“What's the matter? You don't think I'm sexy?"

“I do."

“Then why aren't you eating me up?” Jon asked, grazing his fingers over Richie's lips again.

“Just because I want you doesn't mean I should just assume I can have you."

Jon dropped the pouty voice without really meaning to. “Well, I'm kind of throwing myself at you here. If you can't assume now, when can you?"

“You weren't throwing yourself at me a minute ago. A minute ago you weren't sure."

“So?"

“If you don't know what you want, how can I know what you want?"

“This again," Jon grumbled, dismounting and dropping into the couch next to Richie. He propped an elbow on his knees and rested his forehead in his hand.

“Well, it's true."

“So I'm sexually bipolar. Kill me."

“That's not what I mean,” Richie said, placing a hand between Jon's shoulder blades and getting it shrugged off. “Come on."

“It was just supposed to be a joke," Jon mumbled. “And now we're fighting."

“We're not fighting."

“What would you call it?"

“Talking."

Jon scoffed and threw himself back into the couch, halfway disappearing into the puffy cushions. They sat in silence for a few moments before Jon chuckled.

“What?” Richie asked, half-smiling.

“Nah, it's nothing."

“Come on."

“It's nothing, I said."

“Jonny...” Richie began, in a faux-patient voice like he was explaining something to a child or a mental patient. “You are sitting there in a bra and cowboy boots. I am both afraid of you and wanting to fuck you stupid at the same time--"

A laugh erupted from somewhere deep in Jon's chest before Richie could finish, and it was with a smile on his own face that Richie finally managed to say, “--so throw me a bone here, okay?"

“Fine,” Jon said, catching his breath and allowing the last hiccups of laughter to subside. “It's just that... I don't know... I kinda liked being a virgin again."

Richie released a held breath with what seemed to Jon to be great relief. “I liked you like that, too," he said.

Silence for another minute or so, then Jon finally said, “Can we start over again?"

“Always."

Jon nodded vaguely, ignoring the way his throat tightened again at Richie's answer. What the fuck was wrong with him? A minute ago he was laughing and now... what? Relief flooded him when Richie leaned in and touched his mouth with his own.

Tentative at first, the man's lips were soft but closed. Jon's first instinct was to pull out the sex- bomb m.o. again to get him to loosen up but for once he ignored it and just allowed himself to be kissed without any preconceived ideas of how sexual the moment should be.

Richie pulled away just enough to murmur, “I also liked you sitting on me. Can we do that again, too?"

“Yeah,” Jon said, and climbed back up onto his friend's lap. “You're afraid of me?"

“A little."

“Why?"

Richie's gaze lingered over Jon's face, taking in all of it, which Jon found slightly strange considering all there was to see below his neck. But that was a quirk of Richie's he'd learned to accept a long time ago; Richie was one of the few people who could think of Jon in a sexual manner and yet consistently choose to look at his eyes before looking at his body.

“Well, it's... I don't want to mess things up for you, you know?”

“Mess things up how?"

“You know... people have all these grand ideas of how their first time is gonna be..."

Finally catching on, Jon said, “I know you won't hurt me, if that's what you're thinking."

Richie reached up and brushed the stray bangs away from his eyes. “It's not just that. It's-- the details, you know?"

“Well, I never had any big fantasies of what it was gonna be like,” Jon said, intending to look him in the eyes, but finding himself unable to. He was a little quieter when he said, “I just always wished you could be my first. That's all."

Richie closed his eyes and the muscles in his jaw tightened, as though he was trying to restrain himself from speaking-- or crying. For a moment, Jon thought he wasn't going to say anything at all, but he finally opened his eyes, the unshed wetness there sparkling even in the lower light.

“I will be your first and your last," he said.

Jon meant to respond, but the telltale tingling of imminent tears was starting in his nose, so he just pressed his lips together and nodded.

Drawing in a careful, shaky breath, Richie said, “Do you want to go into the bedroom?"

Jon paused, unsure how to answer, unsure, really, why he was even unsure. But Richie read his mind before he could respond. “It doesn't mean we have to do anything more than we've done. I just think you deserve better than the couch."

Grasping a hold of the only one of his swirling thoughts he could actually pin down, Jon said, “What about the movie?"

“What movie?"

Grinning, Jon looked down and slipped his hand into Richie's, intertwining their fingers. Then his smile faded and he said, “You wouldn't care even if I decide I just wanna talk?"

Pulling their joined fists up to his mouth, Richie pressed the back of Jon's hand to his lips for a moment, then said, “Whatever you want, baby. You're in charge."

Jon took a deep breath and climbed off Richie's lap, standing on the floor but still clutching his friend's hand. His knees felt weak, but he didn't let on. “Okay, then. Let's go," he said softly.

Jon was the first to cross the threshold of the bedroom, and he paused a couple feet inside the door. The interior of the room was mildly messy in an oddly comforting way. Very Richie, and something Jon was more than accustomed to. There were, of course, housekeeping staff that made their way in and out of the home regularly, but they were never tasked with taking care of the master bedroom. As much as Richie was a people person, he required the sanctuary of one room that was kept only by him and, besides, he always said that making one's bed was kind of like pissing in the wind.

_It's just gonna get messed up again,_ he'd said. _Why waste the time?_

Jon was still staring at the welcoming tangle of sheets and blankets when Richie's arms snaked around him from behind, doubling up around Jon's middle. The resonant voice was so close, Jon could feel the faintest vibrations of it on his ear.

“You all right?"

Nodding, Jon's gaze swept from the comforting mess of the bed to the dark-stained cherry of the nightstand. He knew from experience that the two flat drawers that hung under the surface of the stand always contained ample reinforcements for multiple sexual encounters, and usually that felt very logical and congruent to Jon.

Usually.

He looked away from the nightstand. “I'm fine,” he said. “Let's just sit down."

“Do you want me to pull the chairs up?"

“No, the bed's fine, we can sit there."

“Sure?”

“Yeah."

Richie kissed him lightly on the side of the head, then slid a hand down into his and led him across the room. Jon was the first to sit down, and he hoped it looked as though he was taking the lead in that respect, rather than what it was-- the simple fact that he wasn't sure how long his knees were going to hold out. He wiggled himself up, so his back was against the headboard, and Richie joined him.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, and Jon stared at his feet, still clad in cowboy boots, in bed, and wondered how much longer he could keep up the virgin persona. As much as he _liked_ the idea, it just wasn't him. Jon Bon Jovi was a man of sharp sexual wiles. Even before he'd learned to like it, he'd learned how to work it, learned how to want and be wanted. He couldn't really remember being a virgin because he'd been sexually active since almost before he'd even had those thoughts. There had never been teenage crushes and first-time fantasies, because by the time he might have been attracted to girls at school, they were too puerile for him.

He rocked his feet back and forth, still watching them intently.

“Can I hold you?" Richie asked, popping the musings like a bubble. Jon looked up.

“Sure."

Wriggling down deep into his friend's embrace, Jon thought again about the never-was fantasy of the first time. In fact, Jon had never really had much in the way of sexual fantasies at all until he'd met Richie. At first he couldn't wrap his mind around it, because he'd never been attracted to any other man, and he wasn't satisfied with just chalking it up to something he wasn't meant to understand.

But as time went on, and the startling simpatico mellowed into the deep and abiding love of best friends, Jon had simply learned to live with the romantic thoughts about Richie, and they became something of a background hum underlying much of his daily life. It wasn't until the fourth time they had made love, almost a year before, that Jon had admitted having had the thoughts in the first place. He'd been relieved to find out he hadn't been alone.

“What's on your mind?"

Jon sought out Richie's hand and buried his own beneath it. “I was just thinking about when we first met."

It wasn't _exactly_ the truth, but it was close enough. Richie squeezed Jon's hand.

“I think I loved you the second I saw you."

Jon gave a little snort. “You just wanted in my pants,” he said. It was supposed to be funny, but came out sounding almost spiteful.

“That's not true and you know it,” Richie said. “It was more than that. Way more than that."

“What was it, then?"

Jon stared down at their joined hands and felt Richie shrug.

“I don't know. I don't know if there's a word for it."

A few moments passed while Jon waited for him to elaborate. Finally, he said, “That's it?"

Richie shrugged again. “I'll write a song about it, okay?"

Grinning, Jon said, “As if every song you've ever written isn't about me."

“Oh, god, here we go."

“I inspire you like peanut butter and jelly."

“I don't often get song inspiration from peanut butter and jelly, but I'll keep it in mind."

“You know what I mean."

Richie laughed. “Yeah, I know what you're saying. And I'm guilty as charged."

He drew Jon tighter into his arms, occasionally nuzzling the side of his head, and they were quiet again until Jon said, “Do I really inspire you?"

“You are the first thing I think about in the morning, and the last thing I think about at night. And sometimes I just lay there, trying not to fall asleep, so I can think about you longer."

“Shut up, you don't do that," Jon said, but his heart had hiccupped out of rhythm for a moment. He often did the exact same thing at night, and had long ago written it off as an embarrassing quirk to be revealed under no circumstances.

“Mm-hm,” Richie mumbled, face still buried in Jon's hair. It might have been an affirmative answer, or it might have just been a sound of contentment. Either way, a faint electric charge passed through Jon's body and he noticed that the god-awful panties he wore were feeling just a little tighter than they had five minutes ago.

His voice shivered slightly as he spoke. “See? You're still trying to get in my pants." Again, it was supposed to be a joke, but instead of spiteful, this time it just sounded weak.

“Is it working?” Richie said.

“Yeah," Jon relented, and turned his face into the other man's for a long, slow kiss. Richie moved his hand up to cup Jon's jaw and neck, traced the curve of Jon's upper lip with the tip of his tongue. The faint electric charge from a minute before came back like a surge this time, and Jon gasped softly in surprise. Since when did a simple kiss do something like that to his body?

“You okay?" Richie asked.

“Yeah, it's just... I don't know."

“Tell me. I want to know everything."

“I don't know. It just... it felt really good.”

Richie gave a half-smile. “Yeah?” he asked.

Slipping a hand up between them, Jon fingered the topmost button of his shirt that was fastened, but didn't release it. He closed his eyes as Richie came toward him again, touching his lips lightly to each eyelid, down his cheeks, down his neck, softly sucking on the skin at the crook where Jon's neck met his shoulder. He covered Jon's indecisive hand with his own, but didn't attempt to influence its actions.

When Jon unfastened the first two buttons, Richie pushed the collar of the shirt out, uncovering and kissing his friend's shoulder, and a slight chill passed through Jon, making him shudder. He undid the last three buttons, allowing the shirt to fall open, but Richie returned to his collarbone instead of making his way down.

“I love you," Jon said, feeling a little abashed at the sudden sentiment, even though it was something he said every day.

“I love you, too,” Richie murmured, curving his thumb over one of the bra straps blocking his exploration and sliding it outward, kissing the skin it had covered, until it fell limply over the horizon of Jon's shoulder. “Is this okay?" he asked.

“Uh huh."

Richie returned to his task, pausing to ravish Jon's throat before making his way to the other side, and taking down the other bra strap. Then he drew back and searched Jon's face, his deep brown eyes flickering up and down, sideways, taking in everything about Jon's expression. Waiting.

His back buried in sundry pillows, and Richie so close to him in the front, a feeling of intense warmth and security blossomed deep in Jon's chest and permeated him. He shrugged himself out of the shirt, which he placed carefully to his side, instead of tossing it to the floor like he might have done on any other day.

Richie touched the side of his face, still searching him, before kissing him again, urging him to lie down. His hand slid down Jon's side, settling on his waist. When he broke the kiss, he pulled back again, allowing his gaze to trail down Jon's body for the first time since Jon had made his appearance.

Jon followed the line of his friend's eyes with his own, and whispered, “I feel stupid."

Richie's gaze returned to Jon's eyes. “Don't,” he said. His hand moved back up Jon's torso, trailing lightly over his ribs, nudging the bottom band of the bra. “Can I?"

Jon nodded, then sucked in a breath as Richie slid his hand over one of his nipples, still covered with flimsy satin. He caressed it until it poked against the fabric and Jon whimpered quietly. By the time Richie got to the other one, it was already erect and waiting for him, and Jon's back arched up into the touch, giving Richie the clearance to reach behind him and unfasten the bra's hooks.

Richie put his palm against Jon's sternum, slipped it up under the shriveled and partially defunct garment. He paused a moment to place a few more kisses over Jon's upper chest before pulling the bra off and placing it aside.

Without thinking, Jon crisscrossed his forearms over himself, covering up. He'd seen a few of his shyer partners do this upon being stripped of their bras, and he wasn't really sure if he was playing a part at that moment, or if he really felt the need to hide.

It didn't matter either way.

“Turn over," Richie said, and Jon flipped onto his stomach, his arms sliding under and around the pillows. He felt Richie straddle his hips, and then his friend's strong, agile hands grasping his shoulders, kneading them. Jon's breath leaked out of him slowly as Richie made his way down his back, pressing soothing circles into the underlying muscles.

After he reached Jon's waist, Richie moved his hands back up, stroking Jon's sides. As his touch climbed toward his arms, Jon drew his forearms under him enough to lift his chest just slightly off the bed, and Richie slipped his hands up under him, grazing over his now-bare nipples. A soft moan shuddered out of Jon's lungs as Richie squeezed the hardened flesh, rolled it between calloused fingertips, rubbed it in tiny circles.

Richie fanned his fingers out, grazing them first up and then down over the aching little peaks, each finger bumping lightly across in its turn. It took Jon's breath, especially on the upstroke; he knew he loved being touched there, but he'd never slowed down enough to make any distinction between which movements provided what sensations.

Richie intuited this, or read Jon's body language, and amended his movements to include upstrokes only. Jon squirmed under the other man's weight, rubbing himself against the bedding and finding no relief.

“Oh god..." His upper body trembled with the dual burden of supporting his weight and being consumed with such breathtaking pleasure, and before he knew it, Richie was grasping him, turning him over, burying one of the swollen nipples deep in his mouth, sucking it, and Jon was holding the back of his head, panting, wrapping his legs around his friend's hips.

It was going fast, but it felt so good, and a part of Jon wanted to push Richie away, start over, but his body was on fire now and Richie was _so_ good with his mouth...

Richie was on his hands and knees, so Jon had to lock his ankles together behind the other man's lower back, draw his body up off the bed to make contact, and Richie groaned and pushed up against him. He sucked harder, flicking his tongue over the suction-sensitive nipple, and Jon bucked against him now, chasing relief, thoroughly aware in some distant corner of his mind that he was losing control, that it wasn't supposed to be this way, but he couldn't stop.

Groaning again, Richie nipped with his teeth now, bouncing his own hips into Jon's frantic and rhythm-less assault. Jon felt his friend's hand clutching the side of his thigh, groping upward

  


_it's too fast_

  


A sound Jon had never heard before trickled from his throat, something between a fierce and frustrated moan and an almost-scream

  


_too_

  


upward, over Jon's hip now

  


_fast_

  


Jon's legs tightened around Richie's waist, crushing him against the other man's body as that searching hand found his crotch, closed around the bulge there--

“No--" Jon cried out suddenly, shoving Richie off of him, much harder than he'd meant to.

“_Shit--”_ Richie hissed, dropping down onto the bed next to Jon, and throwing an arm over his eyes.

Jon propped himself on his elbows, chest heaving, his wide eyes watching Richie's chest heaving just as wildly.

  


_why couldn't you have just fucked him_

  


Hot tears flooded Jon's face. “What the fuck was that?” he croaked, his throat trying to choke off the words. “Why did you do that?"

Richie's eyes were wild when he dropped his arm. “What the fuck do you mean, why did _I_ do that?"

“You start out all slow and nice and then you fucking just start--"

“Just start what?” Richie demanded, sitting up. “Doing what you're fucking _begging_ me to do?"

“I didn't--"

“With your body, not your mouth! What the fuck do you think it means when you dry hump me like a fucking _animal,_ man? _Christ--”_

He rubbed his face hard, and Jon sat up, drew his knees to his chest, clutching them to him.

  


_he's going to leave now, you fucking idiot, why are you attacking him_

  


Richie hung his head and took a long, deep breath. “Christ," he said again, but it came out in a mirthless little laugh.

Jon opened his mouth to apologize, to say anything, but nothing came out. Salty tears trailed over his open lips, spilling into his mouth.

“You, um--” Richie started, and then looked up. “You want some ice cream? I got Moose Tracks out there. And chocolate."

Startled, Jon opened his mouth again, but closed it quickly. Seeing his expression, Richie smiled a little.

“It's a little-known fact that ice cream solves everything."

Before Jon could answer, Richie picked up his shirt and handed it to him. “Here,” he said, then scooted off the bed as Jon put the shirt back on and buttoned it up. He offered a hand down and Jon took it, standing up next to his friend. Richie put an arm around his shoulders and pressed a kiss against the side of his head.

“Come on,” he said.

  


\-----------------------------

  


Jon twisted his spoon down into the creamy lump in his bowl and smashed it out flat. As it happened, it was chocolate gelato Richie had in his freezer, which usually did, in fact, solve everything. But it was failing miserably this time, Jon thought, as he put the lightly-coated spoon in his mouth and let it melt.

He chanced a glance at Richie, who was equally pretending his gelato required every bit of his attention. He'd taken off his shoes and socks, and his lower legs swung idly from where they dangled off the edge of the island he was perched on. His bare heels thudded softly against the cupboards below.

Jon was sitting on the counter opposite him and had started out swinging his feet, but the heels of the cowboy boots he'd forgotten he was wearing struck the wood of the cupboard doors too hard, and he'd stilled them. He should have taken the stupid things off when Richie had shed his own, but he hadn't, and he still wasn't sure why.

Twirling his spoon back down into the bowl, Richie looked up and said, “I'm sorry."

Jon looked up, spoon still planted firmly upside-down in his mouth. “Why are you apologizing?” he asked, pulling the spoon out. “I'm the one who fucked up."

Richie raised a hand. “Don't even start with that. Please. I was mad at myself and I took it out on you, and I feel like shit about it."

“Why were you mad at yourself?"

“_Why was I mad at myself?”_

“Yeah."

Richie scoffed. “Because I was an asshole. I told you I was completely okay with taking it slow. Which I am, by the way...” he quickly added. “And then I tear into you, and get pissed at you about it."

“I don't think it was your fault,” Jon said, pushing the gelato around with the tip of his spoon again. “I have a habit of sending mixed signals."

“It's not 'mixed signals' to enjoy it and still want to go slow.”

“I don't think it's as cut-and-dried as all that."

“What do you mean?"

“It's not like I didn't see it coming...” Jon said, feeling around for a way to explain without having to think too much about it. “There's a part of me that... I don't know... a part of me that _wants_ it over with faster."

But as soon as he said it, he realized the idea had been lost in translation. Richie looked slightly stung.

“I don't mean that I want to 'get it over with',” Jon said. “I'm not sure how to explain it. I just... I want to make you happy. I want you to be satisfied, you know? I _live_ for that... it's like... the biggest accomplishment of my week.”

“You wrote two songs yesterday."

“So?"

“So, you wrote two songs I am one hundred percent positive are number ones, and you're saying giving me afterglow is your biggest accomplishment?"

Jon shifted, so the edge of the counter could score a fresh line on the exposed skin of the backs of his thighs.

“It makes me feel good."

“But why would you reduce yourself to that? I mean, why would you-- You truly don't know how gifted you are, do you?"

Jon groaned and shifted again.

“I'm serious... after all this time, you still think--"

Jon narrowed his eyes but, with an almost apologetic look, Richie pressed on.

“You think this is the best you have to offer?"

“I don't think that."

“Yes you do. You think that for me, and you think that for the fans--"

“I don't think that."

“You don't? That's not why you're always nursing some gym injury from pushing yourself too hard?"

“That's called _good business,”_ Jon countered. “You think people would still come to shows if I went all Fat Elvis on them?"

“First of all, _Fat Elvis_ put asses in the seats just as good as skinny Elvis. Secondly, I don't think you need to train until you tear muscles to stay in shape."

“That's easy for you to say. You still fit into pants you wore in ninth grade."

“I'm going to assume that's supposed to be a compliment. And you know damn well I have to work at it, too."

“But not as hard. I mean--” Jon motioned to the bowl in his hand. “I shouldn't even be eating this right now. I can feel my ass getting bigger as we speak."

“Did I just hear that right? Just because you're wearing a skirt doesn't mean you have to _actually_ turn into a woman--"

“You know what I mean."

“No. I don't. Because it sounds a lot like you tearing yourself down. Again."

“Can we just drop it? Please?"

“Fine.”

The silence curdled around them, thick with the echo of indignant points not made, and, for a few minutes, the only sound was once again the clinking of spoons and the gentle thudding of Richie's heels. Finally, he ventured,

“For what it's worth, I thought it was fun."

Despite himself, Jon chuckled. “Yeah. Me, too."

Eyes firmly on his bowl, Richie said, “Do you ever wish you could? For real, I mean?"

“Wish I could what?"

“Go back."

Jon let the question seep into his pores, a familiar mix of thoughts invading his head, the ones that always cropped up when he asked himself the same thing. And after all the intervening years, he still didn't know how to answer, so he just said, “Sometimes."

“Only sometimes?"

“Part of me says I should feel lucky."

“You don't really think that, do you?”

Jon shrugged. “Well, a few of them were hot."

“That's not funny."

“I know it isn't."

Richie's mouth twisted into something that resembled a grimace, his eyebrows furrowing. He said nothing.

Sighing, Jon felt the beginnings of hostility licking at him again, and he carefully controlled his voice to keep it hidden. “Man, if I don't think of it that way, I won't want to get out of bed in the morning. And I can't do that."

“So you've never... you know... _grieved?"_

It was perhaps the last thing Jon expected to hear, and he forgot to suppress the rising anger.

“I can't talk about this," he said, clipping his words to keep them from gagging him.

“Yes, you can."

“What do you want to know, Rich?” Jon hissed, aware that he was losing control, in the way he might have been aware of an impending car wreck with no way of preventing it. “You want to know about how I can smell Chanel Number 19 from a mile away, to this day, and want to puke? Linda Romano always wore it just for me. Because when you're 12, apparently you're supposed to be able to appreciate things like that."

“Jonny--"

“How about the fact that Patty Lawson had a set of encyclopedias on the shelf behind her couch that had perfect spines because nobody in that house ever opened them? They were dark red with gold-leaf letters on them. There were twenty-five of them. There were supposed to be twenty-six, but the H was missing. I know this because I looked at those fucking encyclopedias a lot while Patty blew me."

“Jonny, stop."

Dropping his bowl down on the counter, Jon pressed the hand that had held it against his forehead. The cold skin of his palm was only slightly soothing.

“I'm not asking for details,” Richie said. “I'm asking-- shit, I don't know what I'm asking for..."

Jon ran the still-chilly hand through his hair and sighed. “I know, I'm sorry. It just pisses me off. See why I don't think about it?"

“That's the thing, though... you _do_ think about it. Every time you fucking tear your tendons and shit, and every time you offer me sex even when you don't want it because you think I do."

Jon's head jerked up. “What the hell?"

“You think I don't notice? I learned that a long time ago. There's real-Jon and there's fuck-Jon. I can tell the difference."

“I don't know what you're talking about."

“You know exactly what I'm talking about. And have you ever noticed fuck-Jon never gets laid?"

Jon opened his mouth to say something, tell Richie he was flattering himself, tell him to fuck off, anything. Instead, he pinched his lips closed and glared off into space, waiting for Richie to elaborate, or backpedal, but he didn't. More than that, Jon could feel Richie's eyes on him the whole time, unwilling to back down even in that small capacity. It was infuriating.

But it was also comforting.

Jon swallowed the hundred bitter things he wanted to say, and settled for a gruff “You never told me that."

“That I can tell the difference?"

Jon nodded, and Richie continued, “I never really knew how. I figured you'd just deny it anyway, so I just made sure I never slipped and gave in."

His feet had stopped swinging, and though he was still holding his bowl, he was no longer eating. When Jon finally met his gaze, he found his friend's eyes sublime in their concern.

“Thanks,” he managed.

Richie nodded and poked his spoon back into his gelato. Jon picked his own bowl back up and took a bigger spoonful than before. After he swallowed, he said, “It just doesn't seem fair, does it?"

“What doesn't?"

“Remember in school, with the girls, it was all, _don't get a reputation_. I mean, most of the girls were fucking anyway, but they did it on their terms, you know? They ditched the 'reputation' bullshit if they got horny enough."

Richie laughed. “True."

“But when you're a boy, they just _expect_ you to know stuff, and to want it."

“I know.”

“You know, after the first time it happened, it took me until I was seventeen years-old before I jerked off again?"

Richie paused with his spoon in mid-air. “Really?"

“Yeah. I didn't want to feel that way. It made me sick to my stomach. I prayed and asked God to shut it off.” Jon stared into his bowl at the gelato rapidly becoming a chocolate puddle. “You know what the ironic thing is? I wasn't jerking myself off, it's probably why I was as... responsive as I was. And here they thought it was because I really liked it."

Richie closed his eyes and breathed deeply once. Twice. Finally, he looked up. “I'm so sorry that happened to you."

Shrugging, Jon scooted off the counter and dropped to the floor. Then, turning his back as much to regroup as to rinse his bowl, he said, “If it wasn't me, it woulda been some other kid dealing with that shit."

He heard the soft thump of Richie's feet hitting the floor and, a few moments later, felt Richie's arms wind around him. “I love you more than anything. You know that?"

“Yeah."

“Do you trust me?"

“You know I do."

Richie buried his face in the back of Jon's hair and breathed him in. “Can we try again?"

Jon twisted the faucet, closing off the stream of water, leaving them in that thick silence again. Then he sighed, and in the quiet, it sounded like a storm. “It hurts," he said.

“I know."

Jon turned around and Richie pulled him into his arms, where they stayed, gently rocking back and forth, until both their heartbeats slowed.

  


\------------------------

  


Jon sat on the edge of the bed and Richie, kneeling before him, pulled the absurd cowboy boots off, his fingers tracing patterns known only to him over the newly exposed skin of Jon's lower legs, and when he pressed his lips against the inner side of Jon's knee, Jon parted his thighs enough to allow him in.

Leaning back on his hands, Jon locked his elbows to keep them from trembling as he watched his friend work. When he was done, he tilted his face up expectantly, and for the first time Jon automatically assumed what his friend wanted was just a kiss, nothing more, and he bowed forward to fulfill the silent request. The force of the kiss took his breath, and he thought he could feel Richie's hands, wrapped around the back of his neck and head, shaking a little, as though nervous.

Richie broke the kiss and leaned his forehead against Jon's, his chest pumping rapidly, and he allowed his hands to slide down over Jon's shoulders, down to his chest, where he unbuttoned his shirt, kissing a line down his sternum as it was exposed. But instead of pushing the shirt off, he fisted the open edges of it and whispered, “Do you know how much I love you?"

The _yes_ hitched in Jon's throat and he nodded instead.

“Do you really? It's important that you know."

“I know. I love you, too."

“I know I made it sound like the music should be more important, and it is, normally, but this here--” Richie was speaking to Jon's chest, afraid to look up, Jon sensed. “This is bigger for me than anything. This is--"

He shook his head, and Jon nodded, though Richie wouldn't see it. “I know."

Finally looking up, Richie pinned Jon with eyes swimming with unshed tears. “You tell me everything. Don't let me go off-track again. Everything you need me to know, good and bad, you tell me."

“I will."

“Promise."

“I promise."

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Richie nodded and sat back enough to strip his own shirt off. Then he slid Jon's shirt down off his shoulders, and Jon made no motion to either help or hinder. Everything that happened, every move, was Richie's now. On those rare occasions when Jon allowed himself to fantasize about having it back, the opportunity to give of himself only as he saw fit, he was in charge, he called the shots and things progressed only as far as he said stop or go.

It was a shock to his system to realize that now that the opportunity had arisen, now that he had that chance, calling the shots wasn't what he wanted at all. He didn't want control; he wanted to be safe in surrendering it.

“Scoot back,” Richie whispered, and Jon did, fumbling backwards until he was lying in the pillows again, and Richie laid on top of him, his skin warm and alive against Jon's chest and under his fingers, and Jon opened his mouth to receive another deep kiss. Richie found one of Jon's hands with his own and intertwined their fingers as he drew his lips down the curve of Jon's neck, down his chest, stopping only to lavish tender attention on the nipple he'd abused the first time around. Jon watched him move to the other one, the swell of need filling his middle and bringing with it the something-like-butterflies feeling from earlier.

  


_you like it, don't you? she purred, her thick black brushes of false eyelashes lowered. of course you do, just look at you_

  


Jon squeezed his eyes briefly shut and when he opened them, he concentrated on the soft chocolate-hued ripples of his friend's hair as he touched him. Richie.

Then Richie was moving down again

  


_of course you're gonna love it, you'll see. all men do_

  


and Jon turned his head and looked at the nightstand. The finish of it almost glowed in the low- light and Jon found himself wondering if a person could

  


_and you're a man, aren't you_

  


see their reflection in it. The craftsmanship of it was exquisite, really, the tops of the legs meeting the body of the piece in rippled scrolls, the burnished brass drawer pulls

  


_yes, you are_

  


shimmering slightly against the reddish wood and the something-like-butterflies churned inside Jon's stomach, screaming for his attention, fighting to get out, it felt like, and he swallowed it back.

It was a full minute before he noticed that Richie was no longer touching him. When their eyes connected, Richie said, “Let me in."

Jon shook his head, implying it was nothing, but Richie said, “There is nothing you could say to me right now that would scare me away."

Letting the statement process a moment, Jon finally said, “I keep thinking of it."

“Thinking of what?"

“You know. The real first time." He felt dirty for even saying it, for letting that madness out into the open. Why in hell would he continue to beat himself up with that, unless he enjoyed the pain it caused, or unless he secretly _liked_ thinking about it...

But Richie wasn't surprised in the slightest. “I expected you would," he said.

“How do I make it stop, though?” Jon asked, all too aware of the pleading note his voice had taken on.

“You can't."

“Well, I can't just--"

“I'm not trying to make you forget,” Richie said. “If I could, I would. But I can't."

Jon turned back to look at the nightstand.

“You'll think of it for awhile, and that's okay,” Richie continued. “Don't fight with it. Let it happen."

“I should revel in the worst memory of my life while I'm trying to have sex with you?" Jon said, the pleading tone slipping into the flatness he employed when he needed neutrality. It was the first time he'd ever noticed it, but he recognized it from a thousand conversations in his lifetime.

“No, not revel. Just let it be. It's there and you can't erase it. So let it be there. Fighting it only makes it worse.” Richie reached up and put a finger on Jon's jaw, turning his face back to him. “I can't make you forget it. But I can try to take you past it."

Jon drew his eyes upward, focused on the ceiling, and Richie squeezed his hand. Jon had forgotten their fingers were still laced together. He brought his gaze back down.

“I can't do it alone, though," Richie said.

Turning his head the other way to look at their knotted fingers, Jon said, “What if it's too much?"

“It won't be," Richie said, lying down beside him and drawing him into his arms. “You're strong. And we have all the time in the world."

Jon snuggled into the embrace and closed his eyes. “How can you be so patient with me?"

“I love you."

“That's it?"

“Yep."

Richie grazed his fingertips over Jon's arm, shoulder to wrist and back again, and Jon shivered. Goosebumps stood all over him as Richie brushed his lips over the rim of his ear, down his neck. A warm and familiar throbbing grew from somewhere deep and low inside him as his friend's hand slid over the length of his outer thigh

  


_they're_ garters, _silly, you've never seen them before?_

  


Instinct prevailed over Richie's words, and Jon tried to close the door against the thought, that door he controlled and could open and close whenever he pleased, goddammit--

  


_don't be shy, now... that's it..._

  


but it wouldn't close. A tight knot of nausea tried to unravel in his belly.

  


_you can do whatever you like_

  


Jon put his hand over Richie's, felt the movement of it, traced the lines of the knuckles, the short nails

  


_i don't know what to do, he whispered_

  


and parted his legs, encouraging the other man’s hand to dip between them

  


_i'll show you_

  


and Richie obliged, but only far enough to touch the inside of Jon's thigh, his fingers pressing into the tensed muscles there.

“Talk to me," he said.

“I told her I didn't know what I was doing. I thought she'd know what that meant, but she didn't."

“She did know, Jonny. It has nothing to do with what you did or didn't say."

“I could've told her to fuck off."

“You could've if you were twenty. You were twelve."

Jon grasped Richie's hand and pulled it upward. “Touch me," he said, and Richie did, cupping the semi-hardness there. Jon released a shaky sigh.

“Is this good?” Richie asked.

“Don't stop, okay?"

“Okay."

Closing his eyes, Jon allowed Richie to just hold him, press into him and rub him without direction; the quiet filled his ears like water as he forced himself to be still and let his body respond without trying to orchestrate things, either through movement or encouraging sounds. He would trust the man with his life, but he suddenly realized how hard it was to trust him with _this,_ to fail to control every aspect of the situation.

The throbbing in him grew, a silent crescendo inside him, and he finally pushed himself against the other man's touch, wrapped his leg around the other man's hip. Richie kissed him again, softly sucking Jon's lower lip between his own lips, as he pushed down the front of his panties and grasped him, skin to skin. Jon gasped against the kiss as Richie fingered him, delicately seeking out the tenderest spots of him until he was fully swollen.

Richie's lips were close enough to touch Jon's when he whispered, “I want to taste you. Is that all right?"

“Yeah.”

Wriggling down between Jon's legs, Richie pulled the panties off and buried his face where they'd been. Black ruffles of skirt obscured Jon's view of what was happening, heightening the soft sensations of Richie's lips and tongue on his skin, fearlessly exploring every inch, every crevice

  


_does that feel good? she asked, smiling, her lips already swollen from overuse. he nodded because he didn't know what else to do_

  


Jon pushed the fabric of the skirt down so he could see Richie's face. Richie glanced up and smiled, and Jon's breath hiccupped in his chest, as though he was going to cry, but he restrained it just in time. He pushed his fingers into the other man's hair, tracing the curve of the head he knew almost as well as his own

  


_Richie_

  


and when his friend took him into his mouth, Jon raised his hips to meet him. Richie cupped his hands under Jon's butt, pulling him in closer, supporting him. A soft moan escaped Jon's throat and he arched up, but Richie's ministrations remained patient.

“Rich--"

Richie released him so he could speak, but continued nosing around him, placing kisses wherever they happened to land. “There's no hurry."

That was all he said before taking Jon into his mouth again. Jon groaned and grasped the other man's head again, wondering how Richie had known what he was going to say-- or, more specifically, what he _wasn't_ going to say. A small voice, bubbling up from the back of his thoughts said, _because that's what you always do and he knows it,_ but Jon preferred to be confused by it, if only for a little while longer.__

_ _

A rush of heat rolled through him, recapturing the wandering part of his mind. He stared at his hands, woven into the rich brown waves, and squeezed his legs close enough together to feel that hair on the insides of his thighs. Her hair had been platinum blond, courtesy of Clairol, and sprayed stiff enough to feel scratchy, and he wouldn't have touched it even if he'd wanted to. The touching was her job.

Richie's lips and hand moved in tandem over him, his tongue hidden but swirling and doing the magical things it did, and Jon felt the breath hiccup in him again. It had taken only a few encounters for Richie to learn (or intuit) almost everything there was to know about what Jon needed, and he employed it as a matter of custom. When he did this, every word, every move, every touch was meant to give Jon pleasure; not a single thought, that Jon could tell, was given to Richie's own ego.

  


_jesus, i didn't think it was ever going to happen, she said, sitting back and wiping her mouth._

_i'm sorry, he said, even though he had no idea what a proper span of time was for “it" to happen_

  


His eyes clouded as he flexed his fingers, reminding himself of who it was beneath them, who it was that he'd granted permission to do this.

  


_even though his heart skittered behind his ribs, making him think improbably of a frightened bird_

  


Granted permission--

  


_even though he really had no idea what “it" was that had just happened, since it felt different from when he did stuff to himself_

  


“Rich..." he said, his voice thick, and he clung to the echo of the word in his mind.

Richie withdrew, his hand taking over where his mouth had been as he looked up. His lips were flushed and his pupils dilated, either from excitement or from the darkness of having had his eyes closed, or both.

Jon opened his mouth to continue, but a shiver ran through him so hard it made his teeth chatter for a moment. Richie was moving his thumb over him the way he'd been moving his tongue, and Jon found himself careening toward the point of no return. He fumbled for Richie's shoulders, drawing him upward into a kiss that muffled his whimpers as he finally allowed himself release within his friend's grasp.

Richie broke away and, for a moment, rested his face in the crook of Jon's shoulder, his panted breaths fluttering over the other man's skin. When they slowed enough, he drew back and said, “You okay?"

Jon's breath hitched again, stuttered, and his face crumpled as he clutched Richie to him.

“It's okay,” Richie whispered into his hair, slipping his arms underneath Jon's back. “It's okay, baby, I got you."

Jon pressed his face into the tears that dampened the curve of Richie's neck, for the first time giving no thought to how he looked or sounded; he gave no thought to the sweat sheening his skin and how overheated he was, or how uncomfortable he might have been making Richie with his body heat. He gave no thought to whether Richie would try to soothe him, or reassure him, or say “the right thing" . He just allowed Richie to hold him. And for a moment the reflections blurred a little, their keen edges softening into forms benign enough to hold with bare hands.

Loosening his hold on Richie's back, Jon dragged a palm across his eyes and blinked them clear. Richie was smiling.

“You okay?”

Jon nodded and sniffed. “Yeah."

Lying down next to him, Richie's eyes darted over Jon's face, his smile persisting. Finally smiling a little himself, Jon said, “What?”

“Nothing," Richie said. “It's just that... that was fucking hot as hell, man."

Jon laughed, partially-formed remnants of tears sliding over his temples. “You can't be serious."

Richie touched the side of his friend's face, brushing a few of the tears with his thumb. Then he leaned into a gentle kiss.

As his body tilted inward, the unquenched hardness of him pressed against Jon's hip, and Jon instinctively reached for him. Richie pushed his hand away. “Not tonight, okay?” he whispered into the kiss.

Jon opened his mouth to respond, but Richie's lips were against his again, and he forgot what he was going to say.

When they parted, Richie said, “Turn over,” and Jon rolled away from him, so Richie could spoon him, as always.

Fingering Richie's hand wrapped around his waist, Jon said, “What about you?"

“Tomorrow, all right?"

Jon nodded, and then, his fingers moving over Richie's, felt the fabric of the skirt he still wore, and made a move to unbutton it, but Richie stayed his hand.

“Leave it."

Nodding again, Jon released a deep breath and allowed his fingers to intertwine with Richie's.

  
  


**END**


End file.
